Free Godspeed by February Grace Page B

through a doorway recessed into thepaneling I'd not noticed on the way up to my new room. Once we'd cleared the threshold, he pushed the door shut with the tip of his boot.
    The window was fogged from the steam he'd created, and warmth rose to greet me from the still, bubble filled surface of the water. Taking in the scent of it, I sighed with a joy so pure that I felt new tears fill my eyes. “Rosewater,” I whispered, “it's my favorite. How did you—”
    “I know a thing or two about the tastes of young women.” He smiled at me, his cheeks already mottled and glowing from the heat as beads of perspiration began to appear on his upper lip. “I will see to it that you get a bottle for your dressing table and—”
    “Wait!” I cried, as he lowered me, still dressed, into the water. “The gown. It's silk. It'll be ruined.”
    “Worry not. It's an ancient thing. It is but a small, noble act to sacrifice it to spare the feelings of a lady.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    I shuddered as the heat of the water met my skin, but quickly sank into it, almost too far.
    “Careful,” he warned. “If we get those wires wet, it will cause serious damage.”
    I was puzzled by his tone. He spoke as if he knew this was a certainty.
    His every motion as he cared for me (gathered up a pitcher and bowl with which to wash my hair, fussed around as my arms hung slack over the edges of the large tub) indicated that he had a great deal of experience at tending an invalid's needs. Through whose care, I wondered, had he gathered such hard-won experience?
    The soothing scent and soap in the bath seemed to draw the sadness from my body in waves. I tried to ignore the sound of his sighs as he shampooed my hair, but I knew that more of it was breaking off in his hands than was staying where it belonged.
    The time went by all too quickly, peacefully, without conversation. Every so often I'd open my eyes and watch as he tended some part of me with skill and speed: trimming fingernails, applying suds-laden cloth in small, intricate circles to cleanse the skin around the incisions.
    When finally all was done, he drained the tub and rinsed me with seemingly endless pitchers of fresh warm water for good measure.At the end, he held a towel up before me and I managed to free myself of the wringing wet dressing gown, shedding my second skin and leaving it at the bottom of the tub.
    He averted his eyes from my body as much as he could as he handed me the towel. He waited patiently for my weakened arms to do the best they could with raising it to dry myself before finally he helped me slide into a much warmer, heavier robe.
    He cracked the window to allow the steam to escape just enough that he could wipe its residue from the mirror. He helped me into a chair beside it, and after he was certain I was truly dried off, he fetched the box and reattached me to it.
    I shuddered as the energy first spiked back through the wires into my heart. I could feel my strength dwindling in the time it had been gone from me, and I wondered if I would ever be able to live again a life free of the pain that it caused.
    I stared blankly at my expression in the mirror. Schuyler stood behind me, brush and comb at the ready but additionally, there was something else in his hand — a pair of shining, silver scissors.
    “Before I take this away,” he said, indicating the towel he'd wound around my head, “be prepared. You know that the treatments have exacted a price.”
    I nodded. My determination to deny any trace of vanity melted away in a river of tears the moment I saw what he meant.
    My skin of course took the worst of the damage but it became abundantly clear just how much my hair had also suffered the wrath of the energy's course through my body.
    The strands had broken off at his slightest touch, especially at longer lengths. It appeared charred beyond redemption well above the level of my shoulders—at varying points even as high as the lobes of my ears.
    Even more